


he passed the stages of his age and youth

by ohmygodwhy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: ??? i guess?????, Character Study, Episode: s02e04 The Swamp, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 08:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: i could not speak, and my eyes failed, i was neither living nor dead, and i knew nothing (“in the swamp, we see visions of people we lost—people we loved.”)





	

**Author's Note:**

> yeah you bet i quoted The Waste Land aka one of my fav poems ever (tho honestly it's ridiculous how much i use it in my fics rip)
> 
> but anyways, don't ask me why they're in the swamp bc i really don't know lmao, i just really wanted to write this

 

 

_(you cannot say, or guess, for you know only_

_a heap of broken images, where the sun beats)_

 

 

You are: a prince without a kingdom, a boy without a mother, on a journey with no destination and a quest with no real goal anymore.

The swamp is one big gross irritating obstacle you have to get through on your way to your _new life,_ Uncle says, your _new path,_ your _new start._ To you, it’s just one more thing to warn against it. Whatever’s on the other side of it won’t be better than what you came from.

Uncle tells you to _be careful, keep your wits about you, and don’t go off on your own_ , so of course, you do none of those things. To be fair, he is the one who goes off on his own and gets himself lost. You are the one left to go find him. 

(And you _will_ find him. You left him behind once and he ended up half-dead and shot full of your sister’s lightning. You don’t plan on leaving him behind again—you don’t planning on losing anyone else.)

Uncle tells you that the swamp is home to many stories. He tells you that many claim to have seen spirits here—long lost lovers, dead wives or husbands or children. He tells you the swamp is a mysterious place, and that, like all places with spiritual presence, it should be respected.

Trudging your way through the muddy water, tripping over vines, you don’t see anything all that spiritual about it. The most mysterious thing you’ve seen so far is the amount of slimy creatures that can live under a single root.

Either way, it’s getting dark, and you can’t find Uncle, and you haven’t eaten since this morning because Uncle is the one with all the damn food in his pack, and you’re so tired you want to lay down and sleep for the next few years instead of going and living out a meaningless life as a nameless refugee in a city full of them, and so no one can blame you for jumping at shadows or some bird that decided it’s call would be a shriek so loud it made your ears ring.

No one can blame you for stopping and staring when you see a small, far-off figure that resembles a young child. 

No one can blame you for being hesitant when you say, “Hello? Are you lost?”

The boy is remarkably pale when he turns his head and glances back at you. His hair is dark, drawn up in a small topknot. He is dressed in blatant Fire Nation red and black. 

He looks at you, and you feel like you’ve seen him before. You feel like you know him.

“…Hello?” you ask again, much more cautious this time.

“Hi,” the boy says, and when you blink he is suddenly much closer. You stumble back a few paces. The water sloshes around your legs. 

You _know_ you’ve seen him before. He is young, and his eyes are made of gold, and you know him how do you know him—you haven’t seen him in years, you think. You haven’t looked like him in years. 

He looks like you, you realize with a start. He looks like you looked before you were ruined. He looks like you, but he is not you. You are not that boy anymore. That boy died three years ago, and you were remade in your father’s fire.

“Are you lost?” you ask again, because you don’t know what else to ask.

“No,” the boy says, “But I have to go soon. It’s really important, and I can’t be late.”

“Where do you have to go?” you ask; you are scared, dread pooling in your stomach, and you don’t know why.

“What happened?” the boy asks instead of answering, blatantly eyeing your face.

Suddenly breathless, you find your voice and say “I made a mistake.”

The boy nods solemnly and bites his lip, “Was it a bad mistake?”

_Yes,_ you want to say. _No_ , you want to insist. Instead, you say: “I don’t know.” 

“Who did it?” 

“What?”

“Who did it?” he asks again, face politely curious and eyes boring into your own, “Who gave it to you?”

“I—“ you stop. The boy looks at you and you see someone who thinks the world is good, who thinks his father is kind, who thinks he will survive. 

“Oh,” the boy suddenly startles, tilts his head to the side like someone is calling him and says, “Sorry, I have to go,”

“Where?” you ask again.

The boy just smiles at you like you’re sharing a joke, turns to leave, and you _know_ (a door a general a plan)—

“Wait,” you say, suddenly frantic, “You shouldn’t go—it’s not safe,” the boy (you, you are the boy, young and fresh-faced and naive) _doesn’t listen_ so you say “Something bad’s going to happen if you go, _please._ ”

(you’re going to end up like me please don’t end up like me please don’t speak up don’t mess up don’t ruin yourself)

“Please, _wait,_ ” you say again.

You, the boy, you don’t listen, don’t stop, don’t pause, you’re walking to your downfall—he’s too young for this, you’re too young for this, too young to throw yourself away without meaning to and so you hurry after him and grab at his small shoulder and—

splinters of the wood of a broken tree trunk dig into your fingers, and you draw back quickly, heart hammering in your throat. 

The boy is gone. You are gone—you are here, you are older and ruined and you will never be able to save yourself from ruin. 

You are still reeling from the sound of your own young voice, and the sudden rush of embarrassment and anger doesn’t help anything. You huff and kick the damn tree trunk, taking great satisfaction in hearing it crack and snap and try not to think about small bones or untarnished faces. 

Your heart is still racing as you continue your search a few long minutes later. You clench your hands into tight fists to stop them from shaking (it wasn’t real, you don’t know what the hell that was but it wasn’t real you’re just tired and dehydrated and this damn swamp gas is messing with your head).

There is nothing supernatural about the wet mess of a forest. 

(and there is no way you were ever that small, that good—it’s been so long you hardly remember what you used to look like, before all this. you think about that— _fake, an illusion, not real—_ boy who shared your face and feel sick. he is gone. he is lost. you lost him years ago, you messed up and now he will—you will—never be the same again.)

(all you can think about is how painfully young he was.)

(how young you were.)

You’re plowing through the muddy water and sorting through all the junk in your head and trying to get that ringing to stop when you hear

“Zuko?” and then “Where is my child?”

and you feel your heart stop.

_“Mother?”_ you choke, stumbling over yourself to spin in the direction of her voice ( _her voice it’s her voice it’s her)._

“Zuko?” again, from behind you this time, so close you can feel it, “Where are you?”

_“Here,”_ you call, voice breaking, “I’m here, I’m right here, I’m—“

Your throat closes when you turn again and she’s _there._ She’s right there, and she’s tall and beautiful and her eyes are sad and she’s just as you remember, just as you saw her last.

( _“everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect you”_ )

“Mother?” you dare to whisper, and you feel like a child, you feel like you’re back in your room and this is the last time you will ever see her.

The corner of her eyes crinkle, like they used to whenever she smiled, and she says “Zuko, what have you done?”

“What do you mean?” you answer breathlessly, sinking to your knees and powerless before her.

“I did everything for you,” she says, “And you’ve thrown it all away.”

“No, I—” 

_(“that’s who you are, zuko, someone who keeps trying even though it’s hard”)_

“You’ve given up,” she says, and her eyes are so so sad, “You’re never coming home.”

_“No,”_ you cry, because she is here and real and disappointed, “No, this—this is just a setback—I’m coming home, I _promise_ I will, I just—I just need time to—“

She looks you in the eye and you can’t keep going. She looks at your scar and you want to apologize, want to explain, but you don’t know how to do that with the way she is looking at you, like she’s seeing _you_ for the first time.

( _“no matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are”)_

(have you forgotten?)

“My son,” she says, so so sad, “you’ve ruined yourself.”

You shake your head desperately and try to blink the hot sting from your eyes, and she is gone.

There is no tree trunk you can mistake for a boy this time. There is nothing.

You try very hard to catch your breath, cold dirty water sinking through your pants. It doesn’t work. So instead, you press your shaking fists against your forehead, and try very hard not to cry.

That doesn’t work either. 

Your mother is gone, you remind yourself sharply. Your mother is probably dead. You know it is probably your fault. If she could see you now, you think she would be be disgusted with you.

_(“what have you done? you’ve ruined yourself”)_

 

When Uncle find you later, once you’ve calmed down and pulled yourself together enough to stop shaking, he takes a long look at you and asks if you’re alright, if you saw anything. He looks shaken himself, looks very very old in the dim light. You wonder what it is he saw out there. 

(You think you know exactly what he saw out there.)

“No,” you say, swallowing hard and refusing to meet his eye, “there’s nothing _supernatural_ about this place.”

  

**Author's Note:**

> bruh,,,,,,comments save lives


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